


lightness

by babadook (africabytoto)



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: ? - Freeform, Dresses, Gender, M/M, i dont know what to fucking tag this for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 16:06:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5831944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/africabytoto/pseuds/babadook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Straightening his posture in an attempt to shake himself, Frank quickly remarks, “You’re fucking late. And you’re wearing a dress.” <i>Fucking slick as ever, Iero.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	lightness

**Author's Note:**

> i was listening to lightness by death cab for cutie and really got into the line "there's a tear in the fabric of your favourite dress and i'm sneaking glances." so here's some no-bands au stuff. it's cheesy and gay. obviously. have fun!

_Out in 5!_

Frank rereads Gerard’s text from half an hour ago for the umpteenth time, exhaling the last puff of his cigarette. It’s not out of character for Gerard to be late, of course, but that doesn’t stop the frustrated flick of Frank’s fingers as he tosses his smoke to the ground, leaning heavily on the passenger side of his car. Not that he cares to show up to Pete Wentz’s birthday party any earlier than needed, but Mikey had asked Gerard to be there for moral support, and Gerard had asked _Frank_ to be there for moral support, with the added promise of driving Frank’s car so he could drink. The train would have continued had Ray been around, but Frank had already driven by his place to check if his “family emergency” was sincere. (“It _is_ ,” Ray insisted over the phone, “I’m at my mom’s place now!” – but it sounded very much like he was eating pizza and Frank could have sworn he’d heard Christa’s muted laugh in the background.)

With Mikey having instructed his sibling to meet him at Pete’s, Frank is stuck waiting alone outside Gerard’s apartment building, thinking all the horrible, anxiety-inducing thoughts his brain can conjure. _This feels very date-ish_ , he speculates, tugging up the sleeves of his white button up and recalling Mikey’s comment on the party being a ‘soft semi-formal’. _Am I Gerard’s date to this party? What if everyone thinks we’re dating? Did Mikey set this up? I swear to fucking god_ – Frank is nervously digging around in his pockets for his pack and lighter again, frowning deeply, when he hears a door clicking open, and the telltale clunk of Gerard’s worn-in combat boots. The snarky comment that Frank’s ready to make dies in his throat when he looks up.

Gerard’s already blabbing – “Sorry, sorry, I know, where are your keys?” – but Frank’s focus is very singularly stuck on the nylons hugging Gerard’s legs, the loose wave of black fabric floating around his thighs, the way the material tightens just above his hips, the open collar showing off his clavicle. Gerard is wearing a _dress_ , and Frank wishes he had any sort of words in his head that didn’t wax fucking poetic about how beautiful he looks. The awe must show through in his face, because when he catches Gerard’s eyes – framed by subtle eyeliner and carefully-messy red eyeshadow to match his stringy crimson undercut – one of his eyebrows is quirked in a questioning and faintly worried manner. “Frank? You good?” Gerard asks.

Straightening his posture in an attempt to shake himself, Frank quickly remarks, “You’re fucking late. And you’re wearing a dress.” _Fucking slick as ever, Iero_. He winces internally at his comment, and digs his keys from the pocket of his jeans, holding them out to dump into Gerard’s hand. Quickly, he wrenches his car door open and gets in before he has the chance to stare at the way the three-quarters sleeves of the black dress contrast Gerard’s pale forearms. Frank can hear Gerard sighing as he makes his way around the car.

“We’re not gonna get into the absurdity of gendered clothing on our way to a party,” Gerard states easily, closing the door behind him and starting the ignition. “This is my dress and I wanted to wear it and it _might_ have to do with me being late.”

Frank snorts. “Might?” He’s gripping the handle on the door like his life depends on it.

Checking the side mirrors, Gerard says, “I was trying to get the washing instructions tag off ‘cause it was fucking itchy, and I ripped a hole in it, right –“ he feels along the seam on his right side with the same hand, awkwardly shoving his elbow into Frank’s face until he can point out the tear “—here, so I spent, like, maybe ten minutes trying to figure out another outfit.” He leans over Frank to adjust the passenger side mirror through the open window, mumbling, “Your mirrors are always too low, dude.”

Frank stares at the sliver of white skin against black fabric until Gerard pulls back, when he says, “But you had a freak art accident and spilled watercolors or something on the rest of your wardrobe so you couldn’t wear anything else, right? That must’ve eaten up the remaining million years that it took you to get down here.” He mentally pats himself on the back for verbally doing remarkably well, considering that he’s on the verge of having a fucking heart attack.

Laughing his silly, honking laugh, Gerard shakes his head. “No, watercolors are pretty easy to wash out, I just needed to do my make up too.”

“It had to be that dress though, huh,” Frank grumbles. He’s eyeing the way the semi-sheer nylon tights stretch over Gerard’s knees.

Gerard checks behind his shoulder for oncoming cars before pulling out onto the street. “It’s too warm to wear jeans,” he says dismissively. “And, I don’t know,” sparing a glance at Frank, he shrugs. “It’s my favorite dress.” Frank habitually runs a hand through his cropped hair, still not used to the shortness of it even after a couple months, and turns to face the window to avoid staring. He can hear Gerard breathe out a soft laugh while he plays with the radio, and they fall into a companionable silence with Frank’s shitty punk mix CD playing softly in the background.

About five minutes down the road, Gerard breaks the lull in conversation. “Seriously, what the fuck does ‘soft semi-formal’ mean?”

\---

Pete, through Mikey, had invited Gerard (and now, Frank) to his birthday party as a social show of grace, an extension of an olive branch to his new boyfriend’s family and small friend group; Mikey, in his own Mikey Way fashion, had begged Gerard to come to metaphorically accept said olive branch, as well as provide a sort of reprieve for Mikey when needed. Despite Frank swearing to have never seen him express any more emotion than a quick laugh or a slight frown, Mikey is a social butterfly, but also accepts that he occasionally needs a breather from Pete’s honeymoon-phase fawning and too-long-to-be-comfortable-in-front-of-others kissing. This is, of course, where Gerard and Frank come in to save the day.

Frank’s actually surprised that Pete hasn’t tried to cram more people into his house. It’s fairly intimate, as far as a Pete Wentz party goes, maybe only 30 people, and Frank thinks it’s maybe an attempt to encourage Mikey to loosen up. Or something. He’s still not 100% sure about how much he trusts Pete, which may just be Gerard’s older-sibling instincts rubbing off on him, but he thinks that regardless, it’s good to stay vigilant. He tugs on Gerard’s shoulder beside him to pull him down so they’re level, and says, “I think it’s good to stay vigilant.” Gerard wraps an arm around Frank’s shoulders to keep him steady, nodding in unquestioning agreement before returning his attention to Pete’s slightly intoxicated philosophical tangent.

Frank has no idea how he got so drunk so fast, considering that he usually feels uncomfortable getting drunk with strangers. Except that he remembers Joe Trohman pulling him off the porch while he was smoking in the backyard and demanding that he shotgun five beers on the spot with him, and Frank can’t refuse a challenge that involves alcohol. Then, Patrick Stump had overheard him talking shit about the Jello shots he’d made, and force fed Frank two, at which point he had discovered that yeah, he actually does like Jello shots, and eaten(drank?) four more. Consecutively. Andy Hurley doesn’t drink, and thus hadn’t been putting alcohol in or near Frank, but Frank is sure he had been in the background at the scene of both crimes, probably laughing at him. Andy’s cool though, Frank thinks, momentarily looking up at his amused face across the gap of the small semi-circle they’ve gathered; Joe and Patrick are to Andy’s right, looking just as endearingly annoyed, followed by Pete, who is _still talking_ , and finally Mikey’s lanky form beside Gerard.

Surprisingly, Pete’s close friend group is actually very cool. So cool and relaxed, in fact, that they hadn’t even bat an eye at Gerard and his stupid, beautiful dress, and the way he’s carrying himself just slightly different than usual, with an awkward grace that is strangely fitting of him, and suddenly Frank is very aware of the arm around his shoulders.

Having tuned completely out of their small group’s chatter (what seems like years ago) in favor of getting lost in his own drunken thoughts, Frank hasn’t spoken in a while. He’s sure no one will notice if he slips smoothly out of Gerard’s grasp, but misses the ‘smooth’ part and ends up somewhere between ‘clumsy’ and ‘inelegant’. Gerard’s arm slides softly away though, but before Frank can truly make a break for it, a hand grasps his to hold him back.

“What’s up?” Gerard asks, a bright, inquiring smile blooming on his face.

Frank drops his gaze to avoid Gerard’s, which turns out to be a huge mistake when he catches a glimpse of the tear in his dress, then realizes that they’re kind of holding hands, and jerks away from him. “I’m just –“ He starts patting down his pockets, trying to find an excuse tucked away somewhere, and digs one out of his jeans. Shaking the pack of cigarettes at Gerard, Frank says, “Going for a smoke.” He returns Gerard’s smile, maybe a little too forcefully, and whips around to the kitchen and through the back door. Thankfully, Joe Trohman is still inside.

The thing about Gerard and Frank is that Frank fucking _hates_ clichés, but everything about their friendship has, seemingly, been directed by God in the form of divine romantic comedy. Frank lights his cigarette and thinks about how if this were truly a romcom, this would be the magical night where he realizes how beautiful his long-time friend has become. But Frank’s also fairly certain he’s been in love with Gerard since high school, when Gerard was just Mikey’s weird older sibling that slowly grew on him, and for fuck’s sake, that’s two clichés now. Frank groans and leans heavily over the railing of the patio, smoking quietly.

He’s lost in thought, contemplating how badly his theoretical gay, punky romcom movie would be received in the Hollywood section of heaven when Gerard fucking appears beside him, plucking the cigarette from his hand. “Shit,” Frank starts, hand thumping against his chest to cough out the smoke that caught there. “Motherfucking – dick, you can’t scare me and then steal my smoke too.”

Gerard laughs around the stolen cigarette, cheeks hollowing out as he sucks in smoke, and all of the soft PG _The Princess Bride_ bullshit Frank was just thinking goes out the window. Exhaling out of the side of his mouth, Gerard says, “You’re being fuckin’ weird. Like, all –” he does a weird motion, tensing his arms in front of his chest and wiggling his torso a bit.

Frank has no idea what he’s talking about. A little accusing voice in his head says, _you fucking liar_. “Gee, I’m too drunk to play charades with you right now.” He pauses. “Well, maybe not drunk enough.” Gerard rolls his eyes in exasperation.

“You’re being weird,” he repeats, “and I think I know the reason.”

This feels…cumulative. Like, maybe the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Another cliché; Frank’s on a roll tonight. “And what would that be?” His reply comes daringly.

Gerard’s hands are suddenly on his hips, walking him backwards as he talks. “I think that you think that I look really good in a dress and you’re trying very, very hard not to show how much you like it.” Frank’s back hits the side railing, and Gerard is right there, pressing their bodies together. He’s taking advantage of the few inches he has on Frank, chin tilted down to stare intensely at him.

After a moment of his thoughts being reduced entirely to blaring sirens and flashing red warning signs, Frank regains some semblance of composure, and really looks at Gerard. He draws in a breath, and says, “What an incredibly humble assumption for you to make.”

Throwing his head back, Gerard lets out a frustrated groan. “Frankie, c’mon, I’m trying to be like, suave or whatever.”

“Okay, well, it’s not working that great.”

“Fuck you! You were just freaking out, I could see it in your face!”

_This_ isn’t cliché, Frank thinks, this is just them, with their bizarre, flirty banter, and Frank’s laughing when Gerard leans down and catches his mouth with his own. There’s a long, drawn out moment where they just kiss, where Frank’s not reacting or thinking about anything except for how Gerard tastes like the cherry Coke he was drinking earlier, and then he remembers, oh, right, they’re _kissing_. In a panicked moment, Frank flinches in an attempt to get a word in, to fucking _breathe_ , but Gerard follows him, and Frank, finally, allows himself to kiss back.

He’s still reeling, barely from the alcohol anymore, when Gerard does move off his mouth after a few long minutes. His brain is trying to catch up to the trail of wet, open mouthed kisses that Gerard’s leaving along his jawline, leading down just below his ear and ending just above his collar. “Not working, my _ass_ ,” Gerard says, breath skittering across the skin beneath Frank’s shirt, and Frank has to suppress a shiver in order to keep up this whole ‘indifferent asshole’ thing he’s got going right now.

He’s pushing his luck, Frank knows this somehow, but he is still a little drunk, so he replies, “I’m just saying, it was a bit much, you know? Could’ve gone with something a little less out of character for you.”

“I mean, my other plan was to anonymously mail you a different type of flower painted black every day for a week, and then show up at your doorstep with a bouquet of black roses on the Friday.” Gerard’s tone is completely flat, face hidden in Frank’s neck.

Frank pulls back fully, leaning as far away as he can to look Gerard in the eyes. “Wait,” he starts. “Really?”

Blinking incredulously, Gerard responds, “No. Are you serious? Of course not, I’m not that excessive.” He starts giggling at Frank, nose scrunched up.

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up.” Gerard’s laughing earnestly now, and Frank really needs him to shut the _fuck up_ , so he surges forward to kiss him. Gerard makes a surprised, happy noise, and he’s still laughing against Frank’s mouth, the kiss reduced to soft, smiling lips pressed together and shared breath.

Eyes still closed, still very much in Frank’s space, Gerard mumbles, “Can I take you home and fuck you into my mattress now?”

“Oh my god,” is Frank’s knee jerk response, punctuated by a muffled moan when Gerard moves their hips together. Then, he shamelessly asks, “Are you gonna keep the dress on?”

Gerard’s laughing again, pulling away for Frank to follow. “Obviously. I’m pretty much not wearing pants right now, there’s no point in _not_ taking advantage of that.”

They keep smirking at each other, while they’re gathering their things inside, while they’re saying goodbye, even after Mikey shoots them both his weird, ‘I’m Mikey and I know everything’ look. When they’re both in the car, Gerard driving with the window open to let in the cool pre-summer night breeze, Frank lets himself stare and thinks, this isn’t cliché. It’s just them, and it’s fucking _perfect_.

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to make gerard wearing a dress really normal? just something that frank was losing his shit over because he's really stupid in love. anyway i hope that came across okay


End file.
